Ken Bruen: Ammunition

She reached for the bottle, and Roberts looked like he might protest, but then he waved her on. She hefted the bottle in her hand, looked at Roberts, and realized how easy it would be just to go on a wild murderous spree, as long as you had booze to lubricate the process, how hard could it be?

She poured a smallish amount, took a sip, and sat back, let out a tiny sigh of, if not contentment then a certain resignation. Roberts was half tempted to join her. He hated like hell to see a good copper go down the shitter. He said:

‘You go to bat for Brant, you’re more or less washed up, not that you seem the brightest prospect just at the minute, but the Super, you know he wants Brant and if you’re the one to save him, then, you’re the one he’ll destroy.’

She nodded:

Roberts stood up, asked:

‘You really want to jettison your career for… Brant?’

She smiled. It was such a rare event that Roberts was momentarily taken aback. He’d forgotten how pretty she could be and his damn fool heart skipped a beat, the smile was tinged with such sadness that he wanted to put his arms round her, tell her it would be alright.

Yeah… sure.

They were coppers and, worse, English ones, such a gesture would have scared the bejesus out of them both.

She stood too, and seemed like she might shake his hand, she asked:

‘You think I have a choice?’

And Roberts, who knew Brant better than most anyone, which wasn’t a whole lot, said:

‘I’ll do my best for you.’

She reached out, touched his arm, said:

‘You always have.’

Atthe door, he said:

‘Go easy on that stuff, we need the best and brightest.’

She gave another of those killer smiles, said:

‘Not to mention the blackest.’

Then she closed the door. Roberts hesitated for a moment, debated going back in but moved to his car, he thought about her last remark, and trying for the cynicism he needed to survive, he whispered:

‘Hang on to that sense of humour, you’re going to fucking need it.’

Falls’s alibi led to the case against Brant being dropped.

His agent threw a huge party in Covent Garden, and Brant invited everyone, including his hookers. As the party progressed, they’d do major biz, everybody wins. Falls was a no-show.

Porter showed up, looking sheepish and approached Brant, who was opening yet another magnum of Champers. Porter put out his hand, said:

‘No hard feelings.’

Brant stared at him, said:

‘ ’Course not, but will I forget you arrested me? Like fuck.’

And he moved away, carried on a swirl of goodwill from his followers. Porter got a gin and tonic, slim-line tonic, sat in a corner, said he’d down that then get the hell out of there, heard:

‘Yo buddy, how’s it hanging?’

Wallace, looking more like a cowboy than ever, fringed buckskin jacket and, of course, the boots. He sat down beside Porter, took a large swig of his bourbon, said:

‘All’s well that ends well.’

Porter stared at him and Wallace laughed, said:

‘You really need to lighten up, bro.’

Before Porter could reply, Wallace said:

‘I told you before, you’ve a conscience and that’s a dangerous commodity in these dark times. If you’re thinking of, you know, blowing the whistle on our other… event, lemme just run something by you.’

Porter waited:

Wallace was studying his boots, as if they fascinated him. Said, in a stone voice:

‘Suppose the cops were to search another cop’s home and they found a Glock, a Glock with your prints on it and gee, guess what, it was the gun offed the Lewis dude. Would it be stretching it to believe you did the deed as a favour for your buddy Brant?’

Porter was stunned, asked:

‘You’re blackmailing me?’

Wallace stood up, punched Porter on the shoulder, said:

‘Just running a little scenario by you, bro. Y’all take care now, gonna see if I can score me a little Brit chick?’

And he was gone.

Porter swept the gin and tonic off the table, said, in a near perfect imitation of Brant:

‘Bollocks.’

Falls, in a feeble attempt to tidy up, had taken a brush to sweep the floor and found Angie’s handbag under the sofa. She opened it, found the usual stuff and a tiny automatic. She got a fresh bottle of vodka, seal intact, and sat it on the table. She eased herself down, the automatic in her hand, you racked it, and bingo, a round ready to go. She looked at the vodka, unopened, said:

‘Virgin like.’

And gave the tiny smile that had so entranced Roberts.

She held the tiny gun up to her mouth, tasted it, cold.

And wondered what McDonald had thought of in his last moments, she regretted not washing the Snoopy T-shirt. She’d have regretted all the rest, but it was too much… ammunition?

Crackof dawn in Croydon, a wino was rooting around in a Dumpster, the smell didn’t bother him, he out-odoured it easily.

He was reaching for what looked like a box of Kentucky Fried Chicken. He sure liked the Colonel’s recipe, and fried? Accessorised his brain.

A hand shot up, a voice going:

‘What’s a girl gotta do to get a drink round here?’